All
right, we have already written about Doc
Savage in these pages. Dr. Clark
“Doc” Savage, Jr., the Man of Bronze, made his debut in pulp magazines in
March, 1933 (around the same time that King
Kong made his first appearance). Doc Savage Magazine was published by
Street & Smith, and Doc was created by publisher Henry W. Ralston and editor John
L. Nanovic, but most of the 181 novels were written by wordsmith Lester Dent (1904-1959).
Doc
Savage was a surgeon, explorer, scientist, researcher, criminologist and
all-around physical marvel. He did two
hours of intense exercise every day, giving him a fabulous physique. His body had been tanned a deep bronze during
his world travels, and newspapers have dubbed him The Man of Bronze. His adventures spanned the globe: often
starting in his laboratory offices on the 86th floor of the Empire
State Building, and usually ending up anywhere from the Gobi Desert to the
Sargasso Sea. He was accompanied by five
fellow-adventurers, the Fabulous Five – the finest minds ever assembled in one
group. Sometimes, his beautiful cousin
Pat Savage would tag along, creating no-end of problems for Doc.
The end
of the pulp magazine industry might have meant the end of Doc (his magazine
stopped in 1949), but the Nostalgia Boom of the 1960s saw his adventures
reprinted in paperback editions, and he found a whole new legion of fans. The entire Doc corpus was reprinted,
reawakening interest and bringing the character to comic books and a series of
new novels, written by novelist Will
Murray.
I
recently picked up one of Murray’s new Doc Savage adventures, Phantom Lagoon, and it’s a pip. Set in 1939, and based on notes by Dent
himself, Phantom Lagoon concerns Hornetta Hale, aviatrix and world explorer who
comes to Doc’s 86th floor HQ looking to hire him, or at least rent
his submarine. Doc and two of his aides,
Monk and Ham, send her away as a glory-hound.
Next
thing you know, Doc’s HQ is demolished, his hidden hanger of aircraft, boats
and submersibles is burned to the ground, and Doc and the boys are on another
harrowing adventure – this time, concerning a possible race of underwater men,
a sword-cane carrying Nazi, FDR and a volcanic crater. If you can resist a mix like that, you’re a
better man than I, Gunga-Din.
It was actually
Phantom Lagoon that started me thinking on the consolations of junk art, and
the columns for this week. Initially, I
was going to quote passages from the book here, but, honestly, there is no
prose anywhere in the novel worth quoting.
Yes – it’s filled with snappy banter and delicious period phrases, but
seekers of beautiful prose must go elsewhere.
Nor did
I learn anything about Doc (or Monk or Ham), New York in the 1930s, the
then-state of world exploration, or even the Nazi menace while reading Phantom
Lagoon. And, odds are, in just a few
scant weeks, the vast majority of the novel will have been sponged from the
wet-and-wooly lump of gray matter I call my brain.
But why,
then, is Phantom Lagoon art, even if art of a low type? Because … reading the book rejuvenated my
sense of fun and playfulness at a moment that I needed that boost. Spending a couple of hours with Doc gave me
the feeling that the world was still a wide, rich and romantic place, and that
there were adventures to be had by the adventurous. That life, if played correctly, is still a
game and that it is possible to be young at heart forever.
It is a
book told with zest and esprit, a sense of fun and light-heartedness. For a few hours, at least, I was on a
volcanic Caribbean isle with Doc, fighting Nazis and plunging the mystery of
undersea men. I was, in short … happy.
Look –
there is nothing of high mark in this at all.
The characterization is flat or by rote, the writing merely serviceable,
the adventure predictable. But it did
the job – and more so. And that is my point, entirely. At a moment when I was a little tired and
perhaps a little blue, Doc (once again!) came to the rescue.
It may
not be art, but it may just be a benediction.
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